Do you want to sing about him?
by Little Tiger Stripes
Summary: Do you want to sing about him?" "No, never"


**Do you want to sing about him? **

**Little Tiger Stripes **

** DISCLAIMER: I own nuthin'. **

** Okaaaay, so I don't want to spend a massive section of this describing in massive detail why I have no free time whatsoever to write :o( Unfortunately I haven't gotten any further writing the sequel to _"My Captive Audience"_ and it seemed unfair to leave it on the site when I knew I couldn't update it. Basically I'm in my final year at uni, so am spending all of my time on my dissertation, giving lectures to lower years and stressing over chairing seminars about food taboos in the Mesolithic. Hopefully when I have all of this done I can have a break between starting my Masters in which to write more. **

** Second, this is not part of the same series as _"Captive Audience"_ or anything like that, it's just a standalone ficlet. This does or doesn't have slash undertones, depending on how you read it. I personally find Scrubs a bit ambiguous and can read it either way, which is what I've tried to do with this.**

** Notably, this coincides with _"My Captive Audience"_ in that it is derived from the same episode _"My Unicorn"_. This is probably my favourite Scrubs episode, simply for weirdness, and the remote controlled aeroplane scene. The actual reference for this is that a patient asks Doctor Cox whether he wants to sing about JD, at which point Cox replies with "No. Never,".**

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**Do you want to sing about him?**

_No, never. _

Why would anyone want to sing about Priscilla? I mean, for Christsakes, where would you even start? What metaphor could do justice to the injustice of that hair, to start with? And his personality… Just don't get me started.

I mean, the kid's done well. He's actually acting like a real doctor. I mean, it's probably all an act and he's daydreaming about daffodils and wardrobes that lead to magical worlds, but by God he's multitasking well. But that's what women are supposed to be good at, isn't it?

Sorry, woman's wrong. Girl. On a tricycle. In pigtails. And a pink dress. And a candy necklace. Wearing flip flops. No mental images, it's just disturbing.

Okay, so metaphorically – speaking, where would you start with this singing thing? I suppose with his eyes – that's where they normally start. So what? They're blue and usually not entirely with us. And the hair… Oh, just don't get me started on that ridiculous hair. Sometimes I daydream (not as obviously as him, of course) that some maniac will come into the hospital with a chainsaw and cut it all off. Usually it's the Janitor. In fact, I think I saw him with a chainsaw.

I think he may have planted that image in my head.

As for the rest, well, lanky, scrawny and no apparent muscle structure. And a stupid amount of bouncy energy. Like a puppy full of steroids. The only part of him that seems even remotely impressive is the strange feats that his eyebrows are capable of.

So, if the kid is this physically unimpressive and generally so annoying, why does he always seem to be bugging me? Why is he always in my life? Why does his damn success or failure mean anything to me? Technically speaking, he should have even less meaning to me than the barman who serves me my scotch.

I suppose it's how much he cares. About his patients. About his friends. About his lesbian girlfriends. Hell, even about me. He _cares_. But he cares about everything, and that isn't healthy. All that goddamn caring is sickening.

It scares me a bit, just how much emotional investment the kid puts in everything. About how much he thinks of other people. Take this business with Murray. Anyone else would have just treated the guy, then let him die. But no, Nancy has to go and find Murray, the prodigal, and, as it turns out, biologically separate, son. And then has to bug them both about getting their issues out in the open.

I blame the damn unicorn on his journal.

Maybe what I'm really scared of is that I might care about him.

Enough of this crap – I'm just proud that the kid didn't screw up.

Really.

I'm _never_ singing about him again.

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